The End
by battlenotwithmonsters
Summary: A chronical of Erik's last day on Earth. One shot.


I don't think that I remember the sun. It was a long time ago when I last saw it. I know that it was warm and bright, but my life has been dark and cold since then, and the sensations of life have long left me. Yes, I have been cold. Cold as the stone walls that surround me. So cold that I long ago lost the ability to brush away the cobwebs and spiders that even now surround me. Besides, I rather like spiders.

I lost track of how long I've been down here when the clock stopped what seems centuries ago. Since the steady tick-tock was silenced, there's been only one sound in my head: my music box.

By all rights, the song should have stopped long ago, as the sounds of the clock did. And yet they still go on.

_Masquerade…paper faces on parade…_

I can feel that the little gears have ceased to turn, their vibrations long since grown still. But I can hear the little chiming notes as clearly as if the gears were brand new. How can my ears be deceived, after so many years with music as my master?

If anyone saw me, sitting alone with a little music box clasped in my hands, swathed in cobwebs and dust, would they be moved to any sort of pity? But why should they, when not a single tear of mine could move the heart of an angel? And though she cried, pitifully and long, for what she claimed to be his sake, she disappeared from the darkness. Like Persephone, she could not live in the realm of the dead.

I should be dead, along with the clock. I should have died long ago, when my world crumbled into the lake, leaving with my angel and her boy. Would she have kissed me if she had known that I would let them go in the end? Was it just a self-preserving measure, or did she really intend to stay with me? In all the time I have been here, no answer has surfaced and shed light on the dark recesses of my mind.

They say that the evil stay away from the light, because the light will shine upon their misdeeds and put them into full view, for the evil are ashamed. Am I evil? I know that I have caused much suffering and pain, that I murdered tens, maybe hundreds of people. Would the man who lived before the kiss have regretted these things as I do?

It's a wonder that I'm not dead, really. But I suppose that since I already served my time in hell, and am not fit for heaven; God did not know quite what to do with me. It wouldn't be the first time he made a mistake. The first was my birth. They say that God is merciful. I could laugh about that, if I had any breath in my lungs.

I think that I cry, once in a while, when I remember the angel in fullest clarity, when my mind unclouds for a single moment. If I cry now, it matters not. I am no longer capable of feeling tears streak my face.

_Masquerade…hide your face so the world will never find you…_

The world will never find me here, I think. It is too far below the surface to find. If any fool stumbled down here looking for me, the traps that I set for prying explorers would end their days of snooping. That is, until the traps rust, and the mechanisms fail. Perhaps they would mistake me for a dried-out corpse and leave me alone. Though I do wish that I wasn't alone.

At first, the pain of her betrayal caused me to shun all thoughts of her exquisite voice, her beautiful face. And then I began to grow lonely. I fought it for days, keeping her away from me, her voice from my ears, the ghost of her lips on mine. But then, she came to me in perfect reality…but altogether a ghost.

But God, it was so real! I truly felt her hand brush away the dust of ages, her voice chase away the dark. Of course, visions are not things made to last. In but a few moments, she would disappear again. No wonder. She always hated spiders.

Why is it a surprise to me that she stands there now, smiling at me the way she did at her boy? Perhaps because she never smiled at me like that, never with that tender joy. I can smell her perfume (roses); feel those tender hands caress my skeletal face. None of my visions have ever lasted this long. She's been here for more than moments, perhaps for hours. As she takes my hand and pulls me up, out of the spiders and dust, I can hear that silvery voice, though I don't understand a single word she says. Perhaps it's the way her fingers lace with mine, perhaps the touch of her soft curls on my cheek, but I feel as if she is here with me. I'm certain that she is, though she probably died a long time ago. I know not where she leads me, only that it must be better than here, and that I am going with her, my angel. Dieing really isn't as bad as they make it out to be.


End file.
